


Round Robin

by Di0nysus



Series: Fianchetto [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Di0nysus/pseuds/Di0nysus
Summary: Neal is adjusting to his new life as an FBI consultant when a new case threatens to make him lapse back into old habits.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey/Matthew Keller
Series: Fianchetto [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680562
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Neal hadn't thought of Matthew since prison. His possessions from his previous life were either destroyed or lost, besides the bottle of wine which had been conveniently misplaced after their messy breakup. There was nothing, no gifts or photographs, no scars to remind him of Matthew. That was why coming across him again had been so jarring. 

Neal knew Matthew was a proud man. When he left those years ago, he made a promised that he would never come back. Come back to Neal that is, not New York where it had ended. If they were to ever cross paths, it would be the same as crossing paths with any other con-man. Either beat him to it or kill him. 

This was before Neal was caught by the FBI. This was back when Neal was twenty-three and still fresh to the game. He was slick, on the top of his game, and playing an intense and expensive game of hide-and-seek with Interpol over Europe. Neal liked to blame the break-up for him being caught of course, being distracted by emotions. Now that Neal was working with the FBI at the age of twenty-five, the gameplay was different. This wasn't a scrabble to get the ten million dollar prize; this was going to be a carefully planned chase and capture of one of Interpol's top-ten wanted con-men. 

The casefile was slide across Peter's desk to him on a Wednesday morning. It was midsummer so the light was coming in through the blinds, casing white bars over the room. Neal squinted as he read over the file, thumb resting on the edge of the photograph of Matthew. He'd aged nicely, a bit more bulk resting on his cheekbones, freshly shaved and slick back hair. His eyes. 

"Matthew Keller. Do you know him?" Peter asked. Taking a moment to feign thought, Neal shook his head. "Well, he's a prime suspect in a series of thefts." 

"Natural History museum?" 

"Natural History museum. Do you have any idea why he'd target the items he did?"

Scanning through the list, Neal shook his head again. "Pretty unusual items. Are you sure it was Keller?"

"Positive. He became our prime suspect after our previous prime suspect was suspiciously killed in a hit and run." Peter leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked softly. "We linked the driver to Keller."

"All for a cork duck, shopping list, and dirt?" He looked up from the file. Peter snorts, clearly amused. "Keller doesn't shy away from murder. But he's far more grandiose than this." 

"You're familiar with his work?" 

Damn. "I've heard of him - come across him before. Last I heard he was behind the Stockholm airport robbery. Used fake-bombs on the runway." 

Neal allows himself to reminisce. He sat back in his chair, file sitting on his lap, and stared at the photograph. He remembered when Matthew had first introduced dummy explosives into their plans - it had been a high-tense job involving scaling the roof of the Thorvaldsens Museum with a collection of medals and a Greek Corinthian vase stuffed into their rucksacks. Matthew had pulled out white blocks of clay and threatened to blow up the Goddess of Victory. It had ensured their safe escape and nearly killed Neal with fear in the progress. That night they had gotten tipsy on prosecco, half-hanging out of their balcony as they revelled in their successes and kissed freely. 

"What're you thinking?" Peter asked. His eyes are fixed on Neal, trying to read his expression. He gives very little away, as usual, but his face looks more focused than usual. 

Neal cleared his throat. "Well, we don't have much to go off of. Keller's a hard man to catch - evidenced by the lack of intel in this file." He shakes the closed file, as if weighing it, before placing it back on the desk. "Usually with thefts like this it's material collecting. Like with the Dutchman; Snow White books printed on Spanish paper stolen to make old bonds. It's most likely Keller's material collecting. By the looks of it, he's got something specific in mind - the items aren't that broad like swatch collecting."

"So he's going to forge something-" Peter gestures to the closed file "-with the antique duck decoys, wax-sealed supply list, and soil." 

"Most likely." He nodded, and thinks for a moment. 

"Those materials could be dated anywhere within the early eighteenth century. That narrows down date range." Peter rubbed his mouth. "Cork. Paper. Wax. Soil." 

"Sudden interest in vintage botany?" 

"Very funny. Pass this on to Diana and Jones, see what they can come up with." 

They pick up a mortgage fraud case which takes up the afternoon, and brainstorming the Keller case takes up the rest of the day. By the time Neal had arrived home, it was dark. He took a bottle of wine out, single glass, and dragged out a chair onto the balcony. As he sipped, he thought of Matthew. Wondering where he was, what he was doing. The lights of New York glittered and shivered in the cool night air. 

It was late in the evening when Neal decided to head to bed. He left the half empty bottle by the kitchen sink and the empty glass under the tap. The only light was the orange glow of the bedside lamp, illuminating only the corner of the room. The darkness had unnerved him when he first moved in, and had gotten into the habit of leaving the blinds open. The moon allowed a silver outline of furniture, dull gleam of the idle bottle. He stripped to boxers and undershirt before grabbing mail and throwing himself down onto his plush bed. 

Swiping through, Neal came across a post card. Museum of Natural History. He flipped the card, flipped it back, inspecting. No postmark. No message. Print handwriting. He inhaled deeply, realising that he had been holding his breath. He sent me a postcard. Neal gets up quickly. Switching on the main light, he blinks away the pain and grabs the usual items - lemon, blacklight, magnify glass. It's not fear that strikes him coolly in the stomach, but anxiety. He shines the blacklight over the card, and nothing shows up. Same with the lemon juice, which damaged the paper slightly, making it crinkle at the edges. 

Neal threw down the lemon segment and realised his hands were shaking. He knows it's probably the wine making him lightheaded, making him overreact. He glances up at the bottle and considers pouring another glass. 

Then a memory resurfaces: another tipsy night after they'd broken into Chateau de Malmaison, sharing a bottle of Cote de Beaune over Chinese take-out. They had settled in front of Napoleon Crossing the Alps, out-facting each other. Neal had leaned in close, lips barely touching Matthew's, barely keeping in drunken giggling when he bet that Matthew couldn't forge the bottle that Marie Antoinette had gifted Benjamin Franklin. You can't even forge a gift receipt Caffrey, Matthew had replied with. They laughed at the absurdity, ate and drank until the bottle was empty, kissed and groped until dawn broke. 

Neal didn't realise it would become their thing. It had become an inside joke for them, even a promise at one time. The ultimate forgery. Now it seemed that Matthew was taking Neal up on that bet.


	2. Chapter 2

It's three days later when Neal meets with Grace Quinn. He puts on his most expensive suit, opts for a white button up and tie and doesn't shave. He looks sufficiently older and more professional. She showed him the collection, and of course the security system when he deliberately trips it. 

In those three days, Neal had decided that the postcard was the wave of the starting flag, and he was at a significant disadvantage. So, going behind Peter's back and with Mozzie's help, he was collecting his own materials and doing his own parallel investigation. 

There's no way to link her to Matthew, unless his taste in women had suddenly changed. He didn't know whether to be insulted or relieved that she was nothing like him; blonde and unconventionally pretty. He decided not to be distracted by her, and instead searches for a sign that Matthew had been there. The bottles were untouched, though on display. His eyes catch the edge of a card jutting out between the pages of an aged history book. It's another postcard. 8 pm. 

There's a thrill, an energy that strikes through Neal when reading the card. He can't help but grin to himself, feeling awfully reminiscent of old times. After all, this is how Matthew had initiated their first meeting years ago, which turned out to be a very romantic non-date. 

It's later in the evening when Neal's making his way to the meeting spot that Peter called. The link between Keller and Campos fell through, as expected. Funding from the Russian mob, however, that was good intel. Good leverage. But he can't help but feel disappointed. It was never about me then, he realised, feeling lame with embarrassment. Either way it was good leverage.

Neal clocks a figure on the construction site, crouched. 

His breathing stutters, being thrown off for the first time in a long while. He relaxes himself and puts on a cheap swagger, bringing a grin to his face as he approached. 

"Matthew Keller."

Matthew looks up and takes another drag from his cigarette. He looked pleased. 

"I see you got my postcards." His voice is level, barely touching sarcastic. He gets up and meets Neal halfway, stopping only a couple feet away. They can see each other plainly in the white floodlight.  
Matthew looks older, yes, but he's carrying himself in the same rigid fluidity. He keeps his collar up, guarded expression, ready to box any threat which comes his way. And Neal, Neal looks older as well, less boyish with the facial hair. He's slim, tall, less shy like he had been those years ago. His cheeks aren't as flushed or his eyes as light with curiosity. He's more calculating now. 

"Thought it was time we got back in touch." Matthew leaves the cigarette between his lips, deciding to talk around it instead.

"A man died. Manuel Campos?" Neal licked his lips. "You don't care, obviously. Never have."

"Still afraid to get dirty, Neal?" 

"Don't deflect. You're being predictable." He scoffs and takes the bait anyway. "Violence requires no imagination. Anyone can do what you did, anyone can use a car or a gun." 

"You were in prison, I heard." Matthew changes his angle. He removes the cigarette from his lips. "Two years?"

"You never visited," Neal shrugged, "I didn't expect you to, of course. It would've been nice, though."

The admission makes them both uncomfortable. More so Matthew. Neal stares, keeps his eyes baring into Matthew's. He searched, searched for something he could use, understand. He took a step forward. The silence was filled with beeping, startling both. Neal took a step back. 

"I forgot to mention - we're at the edge of your leash," Matthew grinned, "Imagine how I felt finding out that you, of all people, was working with the feds." 

"Feeling betrayed?" Neal snipped, only making him grin wider. "Why would I care about how you felt?"

"Betrayed? God no. Disappointed. It's a shame, really." 

"A shame?" 

Matthew threw his cigarette to the dirt. "I thought you were built better than that. Guess I overestimated you. But then again, you've never been a solo act. And you like having someone to please." 

"Is that what you thought our relationship was? That I was doing everything to please you?" Neal scoffed, "Now I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were smart enough to know a good deal when you saw one. Working with the FBI? The advantages? I could execute a heist and know exactly how to dodge them at every corner. Speaking of one step closer and a dozen FBI agents would be on you in minutes."

"You're sexy when you think you're threatening." Matthew mused. "But they don't have probable cause to arrest me. Trespassing? A weak one, even for you Neal. Clutching at straws."

"Why're you back, Keller?" 

"I want to play the game: The Franklin bottle."

A car drives by, flooding the construction site with stuttering panes of light through the fence. He fixes Neal with a taunting gaze. 

"Why?" 

"To finally settle who's the best, of course. Here, I'll even help you with the first piece." Matthew hands him a crusted bottle. "You've got seven days until the auction."

"And if I don't?" 

"Then you don't," He shrugs. "And you live with that."

Neal hated that that was enough to motivate him. He went home with the bottle wrapped under his jacket, dirt and soot rubbing off onto his white button-up. When he got home, he placed it gently into the sink, and called Mozzie. Over a glass and a half of pinot, they discuss their plans. After the half-glass, Eve interrupt the boys to remind them it's a work night and they obediently say goodnight. 

Neal laid awake that night, thinking of Matthew. He had gone for the bait so easily, gave away too much. He almost regretted meeting with him, almost. It had been so long since he had thought of Matthew, so long that now it was almost overwhelming to have so much of him in such a short period of time. 

The next morning, feeling awful, Neal prepared for the day. He showered, dressed, and made his way to the precinct with a slice of toast between his teeth and flask of Italian roast under his arm. Neal doesn't know if it’s a hangover, or the four hours’ sleep, but either way a headache comes on before his first team meeting of the day. He chugs his coffee and pops an aspirin. 

"How're you doing, man?" Jones leans up against the edge of his desk. Neal looks up from the pile of folders. "You look rough."

"Thanks, Jones. Really." He snips. "I've got a headache. You got a case for me?"

"Yeah, Peter was bummed about the Natural History heist, so he wanted to get on something as soon as possible." 

Neal was passed a file and sits up straight. "What this?" 

"Another mortgage fraud, should be pretty clear-cut." 

"That's perfect," Neal said monotonal, examining the file. "If I ever start up the crime thing again, I promise I won't commit mortgage fraud, out of respect to this department."

"Greatly appreciated. We have a meeting in five by the way; look sharp." Jones winks and heads to Peter's office.


	3. Chapter 3

It was getting dark already, the room lit orange in the setting sun, making surfaces shine white gold. Neal had left the door to the balcony open to let in the cooling air. In the distance he could hear traffic, a passing helicopter. They sat in silence with the crusted glass between them.

Mozzie spoke first. "He's completely clean. That's how he works." 

"Weatherby received Keller's bottle this morning." Neal swirled his wine, took a sip, and sighed. "It's the only piece of evidence the FBI could link Keller to Campos' murder."

"What's your goal here? With the forgery. Do I need to call your mother?" 

"Don't bother Eve about this. I don't know what my goal is, Matthew - Matthew was the only one who challenged me, before Peter and," Neal shook his head. 

"You still love him." 

"No." 

Mozzie sighed, shoulders slumping. He watched Neal with a tender gaze, remembering how young he had been when they first met. Just another snot-nose kid, the very definition of, with a defiant look in his eye and a charming smile that wooed women even back then. But Neal has always been a lover, Mozzie reminded himself, Neal has always been sentimental. 

"There's nothing wrong with still loving him," Mozzie said, softly. "But you need to understand that Keller isn't good for you. Never was. And after your breakup you were upset -"

Neal interrupted him with a loud groan, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

"Please. Please can be not have a heart-to-heart? I just want to plan our next steps." 

"We need to know what our end goal is here: are you going to contact the FBI and let them know what you've got, or are you going to finally finish this pissing contest? Because after this, I think that Keller's either going to beat you or kill you."

"We can submit a Franklin bottle of our own. If I turn in a fake that's just as good as Matthew’s, they'll have to test them both. That'll force the auction house to run a caesium test. No one can beat this caesium test." Neal sat up, taking the bottle in his hands and inspecting it. 

"You force the test, you both fail, it proves that Keller's bottle’s a counterfeit. The FBI get him on fraud."

"So, you want to turn him in?" 

"I don't know." 

Mozzie sits back in his chair. "Neal -"

"Look, this is supposed to be our final showdown. Whoever completes the impossible is the winner." Neal downs the rest of his wine. "I need to do this."

"You don't want to lose his respect." 

He huffs. "I've already lost it. He knows I'm working for the FBI." There's a pause. "I want to do this. Need to."

It's been the opportunity he's been looking for; Mozzie thinks. 

"How's the bottle coming?"

"Oh, I, uh, paid off a guard at that Maritime exhibit for French cork made before the industrial revolution." Mozzie gets up and lifts a box which had been sitting by the microwave. "New York Gazette from 1785, bottle, cork. Now we just need the wax." 

"There's some Château Du Munn in her vault. How much wax do we need?" Neal leans in to inspect the materials. "They have a keypad with a rotating code. Biometric scanner plate with a pulse monitor."

"Oh, that's tricky. So how do you get in?"

"Have her open the door. For my client. Carlton Lead." Mozzie is about to ask but notices the sly look on Neal's face. No. No. He opens his mouth to refuse. "All I need are some wax shavings. Come on. You can get all dressed up, hobnob with pretty people, drink a fine glass of Port. There's wine, Moz, lots of it."

"That does sound tempting. When were you planning on telling me you had a meeting with Grace?" Neal has the decency to look bashful. "Okay. Okay. I'll get a suit."

The next day, Neal excuses himself at lunch to meet Mozzie at a local public park. The summer was coming in strong, making the air stale and humid; flies were swarming over puddles and fretting picnickers. Mozzie was sat on a bench by the centre fountain, red cheeked and dewy. He was holding a newspaper and cane, tapping it on the ground as he watched a group child play frisbee with their dog. 

"Do you ever miss your childhood?" Mozzie said in greeting. 

Neal winced. "No. No, I don't. Neither do you, remember?" 

He hummed. "Ready to go? I brought my wealthy man gear." 

"Elderly wealthy man more like. Are you playing my client or my grandfather?" 

They chuckle. 

Grace met them at the upstairs venue, the wine-tasting already having begun. She greets them with a smile and two glasses of freshly poured 1985 Château Pétrus Pomerol. 

Mozzie grins, almost childishly at her. "The use of wood is evident in its broadness of flavours. Great persistence in the mouth. It opens up well in the glass." 

Neal barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, but Mozzie's smooth enough that he's in and out the vault in less than thirty minutes with Grace, already having placed a piece of duct tape over the latch, now sipping on expensive wines and laughing with newfound friends. 

Neal hangs back, trying not to draw too much attention to himself and descends the stairs. He finds the post-revolution collection inside a box carefully stored in the corner of the storeroom and takes a scalpel to it. He collects his pieces into an envelope and slips it into his breast pocket. When Neal turns, he's met with Matthew's face, watching him from through the vault's window. He jolts, startled, and closes the lid with a bang. 

He's talking though, his mouth moves in a way that seems disconnected to his eyes. Neal notices then that there's the figure of a woman, Grace, her back turned to the glass. He breathes, slowly, and ducks behind a stall of wine. He heard the door click open; their conversation now audible. 

He slipped past no bother and is quick up the stairs back to Mozzie who's on his fifth glass already. 

"You saw him." Neal gasps, regaining his breath. "Matthew. He's here. He saw me too."

"Yeah, he approached me." Mozzie stared into his wine. "Pretended not to know me. Threatened to call the feds in." 

"I got the wax. That's all that matters."


	4. Chapter 4

The evening of the auction was the hottest day of that month. Neal had taken that opportunity to impress: He was wearing a Giliberto suit, top buttons undone, oxfords to tie the whole thing together. He was cleanshaven, hair slick back, aviator glasses. 

"I'm playing a part." Neal grinned. 

"You're playing yourself." Mozzie replied. "I'm sure Keller will be very impressed."

Mozzie had rolled his eyes when he first arrived at the flat, and almost groaned when Neal had retracted the roof of Mozzie's "rented" convertible and rested his elbow on the door whilst driving. 

"You know, I find it suspicious that Peter gave up so easily on the Natural History heist case." Mozzie stated. 

"He didn't. Because there wasn't a solid link to Matthew, he dropped it as high priority and gave it to a different team." Neal said, flicking on the indicator. "Peter's focusing on other cases: more wins the better." 

"It's unusual though. The Suit's faced this issue before but he didn't just abandon the case...He spent five years looking for you, for one." 

Neal smirks. "Yeah, but I was leaving breadcrumbs. And he was smart enough to find links." 

"I just feel like we should be cautious." Mozzie fiddled with his wedding ring. "Though between Matthew and the FBI I'd take FBI." 

When they arrive at the auction, it's in full swing. Servers wove between the crowd serving drinks on trays and the auctioneer was blurting out numbers and pointing. Mozzie whistled in awe when a bottle of wine sold for sixty-five thousand dollars. 

Neal takes a glass, and over the rim inspects the crowd. "I see European nobles and a handful of hedge fund managers, but no sign of Matthew. He wouldn't miss the chance to see my face when this goes down. He must be watching somewhere."

As he says that, Matthew came into view from a side-wing. He's wearing a sleek black suit, Italian tie, and a smug expression that only serves to rile Neal up. They lock eyes, and Neal pets the navy box which he holds on his arm like a toddler. They grin at each other. 

But their flirtation is cut short when Peter comes up next to Neal.

"What're you doing here?" They almost asked at the same time. Peter beats him to it. He realised he didn't have an answer, and that he was still holding the goddamn wine. Peter looks thoroughly angry, but not surprised. "I need to speak to you. Both of you."

They were taken to a private drawing room. Peter locked the door after them, slamming the key onto the closest surface. 

"You said you knew nothing about Keller -" he started. 

"And you told me that you dropped the case because of the weak link between Campos and Matthew." 

"So, he's Matthew?" Peter thrust his hands into his hips. "You know that lying is only going to jeopardise your arrangement here with the FBI. You lied about your ties to Keller. I did a bit of digging and found out about the backgammon con you pulled together back in 04', so I knew I couldn't trust you to be on the team."

Neal grits his teeth, "We worked together. It went south. That's all you need to know." 

"Also, this is a high-stakes pissing contest." Mozzie piped up.

"So, this is between the two of you?" Peter almost spits. "Someone's dead because of this. For what? I'm guessing that's your own wine bottle forgery in that box?"

"Matthew -" Neal places the box down "-Keller, approached me with this challenge. It was a dumb bet we made when we were drunk. I couldn't say no."

"Temptation." 

"No." Mozzie crossed his arms and lies easily. "The plan was to trigger a caesium test which would prove both bottles were fakes. Which means that Keller gets caught in the act." 

Everyone is quiet. The sound from the auction was barely audible, only the occasional cheer or passer-by. They stand in opposite sides of the room, hunched and tense, no eye-contact. 

The clock on the wall is the only reminder that time is passing. Peter doesn't believe them, and nor should he, in Neal's opinion. Though it would tie up beautifully for all parties if the plan worked and Matthew were to be arrested. 

"We're going through with it." Peter said, breaking the silence. He gets up close to Neal, finger pointing. "You better hope this plan works. After this is done, I'm putting you on desk duty until I think you're ready to go out onto the field again. I'll also be interrogating you alongside Keller. Am I understood?" 

Neal nods, and they exit the room. When they present the bottle to Sir Cattigan and Grace, it goes down exactly as they had expected. Grace supports the testing, Cattigan doesn't. 

The test takes three hours, three hours of which they mingle, act as though the auction is going on as normal. Neal watches Matthew from afar, who glanced at him every so often. There's a building tension between them two as the clock ticks. 

A 1983 bottle is brought out with a selection of accompanying oeuderves to drag out the wait. When they get the results, they prove Neal's is a fake, and Matthew's is real. 

"You said it was impossible to fake." Peter whips round face flushed. 

Neal doesn't respond. He and Matthew make eye contact, he winks, Neal furrows his brows. Matthew had the bottle all along. He wanted to drive up the bottle's price. The Russians. All he manages to say is "He used me to do it."

Peter rubs his face. "This was his plan the whole time." 

"You have to arrest him now. As soon as this auction ends, he's gone." Mozzie clasped Neal's shoulder, turning him round to look into his eyes. "Neal. You've been beaten. Remember what I said before?" 

"What did you say?" Peter asks, taking out his phone. "What are we going to arrest him on? I mean, we have nothing on him now. I've just got intel from Cruz; I need to run."

"It's all right, well, I'll stall until you can get him." Neal broke from Mozzie's grasp. Both men move to object, but he's already making his way to the wing where Matthew had disappeared.

The calamity of the auction room dies away as Neal jogs down the hall, peeking into rooms as he goes. He finds him with one foot out of a window, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. He was speaking in Russian, sounding quite exasperated as well. Matthew clocks him as soon as he enters, smirks and sits down. 

"Bravo, Matthew. Seriously." He prowls over. "I have to admit using the real Ben Franklin bottle, did not see that coming. Genius, really."

"Wow. So, you came by to see me off, huh, Caffrey? Who knew you were such a gracious loser?" Matthew said, after hanging up. He leaned back against the frame and undid his collar and tie. He's handsome in the lowlight of the room, orange streetlights outlining his face in warm glow. "That actually means a lot coming from you."

Neal licked his lips and dared to sit next to him on the ledge, their legs just barely touching. "I know about the Russians. It's a pity, really. I would've helped you out, y'know. I have some stuff stashed here and there. Stuff the FBI have no idea about." 

Matthew chuckles and leans in. He says, in a low voice; "I'm impressed, Neal. You haven't lost your touch." 

"I've impressed you, huh?" Neal grins, and can’t help but glance down at his lips. Matthew gets the message, and there's a jerk of hesitation, a split blip in his expression before he moved forward, placing a very familiar, warm kiss to Neal's lips. When they pull back, he exhales. "We haven't had time to talk."

Neal's ruined the mood, he knows, and Matthew is out of the window and racing down the fire escape before he can say anything else.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Neal is in a glass interrogation room with Peter and Diana. 

He sits, fiddling with the casefile in front of him. There were photos of Matthew Keller, European estates, suspected forgeries, all building a very lavish and familiar picture. 

"What I want to do is build a strong character-card of Matthew Keller, and his life up until now. Everything you know, everything you collaborated on, I want to know." Peter said. "Know that you're currently on thin ice, so lying is not tolerated. I know things, which I haven't shared, so I'll know if something doesn't add up." 

"I'm here for support." Diana added.

"What do you want to know?" Neal asked, obediently. He sat back in his chair and relaxed his shoulders. 

"How did you two meet?" Peter started. 

After a moment, he answered, "I met Matthew Keller in '02, in the Grand Casino in Monaco during the World Backgammon Finals. I was new to the game and attempted to pull a fast one on him. We hit it off. He saw potential in me."

Diana hummed, writing as he spoke. "And how old were you?"

"Just turned nineteen." 

"That puts your birth year as nineteen-ninety-four." She frowned. "You're currently twenty-four."

Neal shrugged. "Matthew was an older, more experienced conman. Guess he thought he could use me for a few years until I tried to surpass him." 

"Are there any crimes you'd like to admit to?" Peter asked. 

Neal shook his head. "I would like to know what went down last night after I ran after Matthew."

"Me too." Diana raised her eyebrows. "You said, and I quote: 'He jumped out of the window and got away'."

"That's what happened." 

"You didn't think to follow?" 

Peter gestured to interrupt. "The wine sold for almost seven figures thanks to the forgery. Keller's got enough to pay off the Russians and live comfortably for a while. Until he gets greedy again, that is."

"He won't be bothering us for a while." Neal states, with confidence. He rested his elbows on the table and began rearranging the photographs. 

He stops on one, Schiele's Crescent of Houses II (Island Town). He remembered that night in Vienna, the museum quarter had been alive and buzzing with energy late into the evening. 

Low hanging lanterns, the restaurants spilling out onto the courtyard, a string quartet playing. There had been opera singer that night as well, a heart-breakingly beautiful woman in a deep red dress, who's voice carried through the halls of the building. 

They had been sitting by candlelight, splitting a bottle of wine and tiramisu. Wearing their casual attire, nice-fitting blazers and jeans, polos and Matthew's "dumb old-man hat" as Neal had put it before they'd left their hotel room, they passed as wealthy tourists without being garish. 

It was probably at this point that Neal had felt most in love with Matthew. 

The painting had just been sitting there, very little security - which had been odd, but it was nearing closing time and everyone was more than a little tipsy - and he had given Matthew a little nudge, a small "it would be so easy...". The tempting voice on his shoulder. 

They'd gotten away with it of course, and the painting was coincidentally "recovered" almost two weeks later. 

Neal wondered for the first time in a long while if he still had photographs from their time in Europe. 

"Neal?" Peter snapped him out of it. "Do you want to share?" 

"Uh, no," He shook his head. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"You haven't given us much." Diana skimmed over her notes. "We've got your birth year and the year you met Matthew." 

"How did your partnership fall through?" 

He sits quietly. How did it fall through? 

"The thing about Matthew is - he doesn't shy away from guns. He was an arms trafficker when I met him. He only started dabbling in art after we met.

"We'd been doing fine, but the night before a job, things were tense - it was going to be a big job and I think we both understood the stakes. We had an argument. It made things awkward and tense the next day when we were supposed to pull of the heist.

"We were working with a third guy. Matthew was already suspicious of him, didn't like him, but he was necessary for connections. The guy thought he'd left his passport behind, which would've gotten us all caught." He breathed deeply, remembering the frantic argument that had followed. "Matthew shot him. Just - just killed him." 

Diana scribbled her notes down. 

"He dropped me after that. Just told me to take my cut and go." 

"You never spoke after that?" 

"I was arrested six months later." 

The rest of the interview was fruitless. It only served to open old wounds of Neal's part. He excused himself for the rest of the day, taking his casefiles home to work on. 

Neal's apartment seemed so much bigger suddenly. It was quiet, aside for the sound of the AC. He switched it off and threw open the glass doors, letting in as much air and noise as he could. He picked up two wine glasses and a 1992 bottle and took a seat on the balcony. 

He focused on mediocre cases until the sun low enough that the world was cast into a golden hue. He closed his eyes and revelled in that light, remembering Europe. He craved sun and beach, foreign tongues, pastries with custard and fruits, being with someone. 

Almost like a wish had been granted, the scrape of a chair woke him from his dream. 

It was Matthew. He was dressed in all black, tight jeans and a polo underneath a bomber jacket. His hair wasn't slick back, instead it was loose and wispy in a way that suggested he had come to Neal's apartment in an unconventional route. He had an almost bored expression. 

"Aren't you going to pour me a glass?" He asked. 

Neal smiled, pained. He sat up and did as he was told, serving Matthew his wine. It was still cool and sweating, dripping messily over the glass table. 

"Are we going to have that conversation?" Neal asked, topping off his own glass. "If not, I'm not sure why you're here." 

"What conversation, Caffery?"

"About the '08 heist, and what happened the night before, for one." He frowned. "And you coming back out of the blue. This thing with the Russians."

"You don't need to know anything about the Russians." Matthew stares at his wine as he swirled it. He sniffed and sipped. "That's all sorted. They're not out for my blood anymore." 

"Glad to hear it." And Neal is. He decided that honesty is the best route right now. Any games and he risked losing Matthew a second time. "I want to talk about our breakup." 

He scrunched his face, as if the wine was foul. "There's nothing to say, Neal. It - it got too much, and you know that. Why do you need bring up something in the past?"

"I never got any closure." Neal snapped. "I don't know if it was you losing interest in me, or me doing something to repulse you so much that you'd just abandon me in an airport." 

"I didn't lose interest." 

"Was it because we were getting serious? I'd assume we were serious because we'd been dating for four years -"

"You were a kid, Neal." 

"I was twenty-four when I was arrested." 

They sit in silence for a moment, collecting their thoughts. 

"I loved you. A lot." Neal said in a quiet voice. He was staring directly at Matthew, daring him to look him in the eyes. "That's what set you off. I said that I loved you that night. The first time in four years, Matt, and when I said it, it scared you off." 

Neal didn't realise his eyes were brimming with tears until his vision swam. 

"We'd been in a rough patch." Matthew finally said. It was matter of fact, presented as if it was the reason for their breakup. "Then I shot David. You didn't have the stomach for it. I realised you were just a kid, and that we weren't compatible working together anymore." 

The words came and did their damage. Neal was winded by every syllable. He was barely able to understand them, as if his memory of that day were made murky by Matthew's words. A fog cast where he could barely even remember David's face, barely remember their conversation. All he could hear was anger, fear, feel the tension all in his chest. 

Matthew looks at him then, swallows thickly. He gives away nothing on his face, but his hands are fidgeting with his glass. He sighed. 

"How do you - how do you feel now?"

The question is left hanging in the air. It was a double-edged sword, making them both vulnerable. 

Honesty. "I don't know."

A beat. "Me neither."


End file.
